Page 48 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

And the mood was suddenly lifted and they both turned to each other and laughed.

‘Actually, pizza would make me really happy right now,’ agreed Maggie. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Me too.’

‘Right. Come on then, let’s quickly shower and change and then I’ll take you to this great pizzeria I know. The last time I was in Rome I had the best pizza.’

‘Much better than a feather.’

‘Much better.’

Grabbing her toiletries from her suitcase, Flick went to use the shower in the ensuite while Maggie hung a crumpled dress on a hanger and hoped the creases would fall out. As Flick walked to the bathroom, Maggie turned to her.

‘I know I’m not your mum, but I want you to know you’re in Rome with someone who cares about you. And for what it’s worth, I’m glad I get to show you the city.’

There was a pause and for a moment Maggie feared she’d overstepped the mark. Oh dear. Was that insensitive? Had she said the wrong thing?

But as anyone who has lost anyone knows, the only wrong thing to say is nothing at all and Flick’s pause wasn’t because Maggie had been insensitive. It was because, of all the sympathy shown to her by family and friends, this simple act of thoughtfulness by a woman she’d only just met floored her. It was one of the kindest things anyone had ever said.

‘Me too.’ She smiled and opened the door.

It was a July evening in Rome and after the sweltering lethargy of the brutal midday sun, the city had revived itself from its riposo and come alive in the dusky shadows. Narrow cobbled streets were crowded with freshly showered tourists eating gelato and shopping for souvenirs, while piazzas thronged with restaurants, street musicians, faded stucco and fountains and the orange glow of a thousand Aperol spritz. A glorious jumble of life past and present.

After fifteen minutes of weaving their way through the backstreets, Maggie suddenly turned to Flick.

‘Wait, I have to blindfold you.’

‘I thought we were just going out for pizza?’

‘We are, but I need to cover your eyes.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t ask why. It’s a surprise.’

‘I hate surprises.’

‘You’ll like this one. Trust me.’

Flick was unconvinced. Once, on a school coach trip to Windsor Castle, she’d learned about coats of arms with Latin inscriptions and decided her motto would be ‘Trust No One’. Only, she didn’t know what that was in Latin because she went to a local comprehensive and they didn’t study Latin. Plus, her ancestors were all coalminers; they had outside loos, not family crests.

Still, it was probably just a royal family thing. Something from medieval times, along with the suits of armour and swords. Or so she thought until she’d gone to university some years later and been teased about her accent by posh boys wearing gold pinky rings with family crests, and realized it was actually a real thing.

Magnus stultus.

‘OK, OK.’ Surrendering with a sigh, she allowed Maggie to put her hands over her eyes and lead her faltering across the cobbles.

‘Mind the kerb . . . Careful, there’s a scooter to your right . . . Nuns incoming!’

Maggie barked out instructions, while Flick, feeling incredibly vulnerable, clung on to her arm and allowed herself to be steered down the street.

‘Ow,’ she yelled, as she bumped shoulders with a passing tourist. ‘This better be worth the surprise.’

‘It is, trust me.’

She was led a bit further, trying not to trip on the cobbles.

‘OK, now you can open your eyes.’